


Of Course

by BrokenWingsAflight



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen, Someone Help Will Graham, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 08:39:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19373158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenWingsAflight/pseuds/BrokenWingsAflight
Summary: Will's power and gas go out. It's cold as the ninth circle of hell outside. Guess who has power and heat? Hannibal. That's it. That's the story.





	Of Course

One forty-five a.m. and the house is dark. The power’s been knocked out and the gas line is nonfunctional. Will gets a phone call from the gas company that wakes him from fitful sleep, telling him the heating won’t be back online ‘til late tomorrow (or today, depending on your perspective). Instead of blinking to signify the loss of power, the alarm clock is off for some reason. It’s a blessing. Will makes note of that. Perhaps he’ll switch to using his phone for an alarm, so he never has to stare at neon red numbers again.

As one expects when all the sources of heating for a house are defunct, the house is freezing cold. If the thermostat were operational, it would’ve told Will that the inside temperature is twenty-four degrees Fahrenheit (also known as just plain cold, at least for sleeping). When he sets his feet on the floor, frigid fingers of pain shoot up his legs. Using his phone’s flashlight, Will searches unsuccessfully for the socks he could’ve sworn he’d been wearing when he went to bed. It wasn’t uncommon for him to somehow reject every piece of clothing he fell asleep wearing at some point in the night, but the habit was getting annoying.

Unsure what else to do, Will makes a phone call. The voice on the other end is remarkably clear for the time of night.

“Hello, Will.”

“Hi. I, uh …” Will struggles to put together a coherent sentence. He is distinctly nowhere near as awake as Hannibal is. “I have a little bit of a problem and was, uh, wondering if maybe you could help.”

“I might be able to, depending entirely upon what your problem is.”

“Well … It’s fifteen degrees outside, twenty-four inside, and my gas and electric are both out. If I—if I could bring my dogs over—well, my dogs and myself—”

Hannibal cuts him off, hearing his voice shake over the phone. “Of course. I will light a fire. Would you like a cup of tea waiting for you?”

“That would be very nice. Thank you.”

“Of course,” Hannibal says again. After he hangs up, he whispers, “Anything you need.”

 

It’s nearly two thirty a.m. by the time Will pulls his truck into Hannibal’s driveway. He’s shuddering with cold, his teeth chattering so intensely his jaw hurts from the tension. The dogs, antsy from the journey and none too pleased that the truck’s tires got up close and personal with some black ice, pile out when Will opens the doors.

Hannibal is pouring tea in the kitchen when the doorbell chimes. He examines Will closely once he and his dogs are all inside. His once-over is clinical; his thoughts are not. “Sit down,” he says, his voice rougher than he intended for it to be. “I will bring you the tea I promised.”

Will obeys. As Hannibal returns to the kitchen, he hears Will say, “No, you aren’t allowed on this couch. No. I’m sorry.”

“Let them,” Hannibal says simply.

“Their claws are going to tear up the leather,” Will protests halfheartedly.

“Mm. Blankets, then.” Hannibal sets Will’s cup of tea and its saucer in the center of the coffee table, safely beyond the reach of (most of) the dogs’ tails.

“Thank you.”

“Of course.” Hannibal disappears down a hallway. Will picks up the cup and lets the steam warm his face as the hot porcelain warms his hands. The deep chill in his bones surrenders little by little to the embrace of heat, and he feels like he could sink into the sofa. His eyes are nearly closed when Hannibal returns with blankets for the sofa and armchairs. Though he stands when Hannibal asks him to, Will doesn’t remember hearing the request.

 

Will shivers every now and then as he drifts off to sleep. It’s three in the morning now and the small jolt of caffeine he got from the tea—Hannibal did tell him what kind it was, as usual, but the name slipped his mind—can’t keep him awake any longer. He curls up into the fetal position, his back to the fire roaring in the fireplace. In his pocket, his phone buzzes. Hannibal takes it with deft fingers and declines the call, then places it face down on the coffee table.

 

 _Here cometh the nightmares._ Three thirty rolls around and Will gasps for air as if drowning, already soaked in sweat. His forehead and chest are slick with perspiration; beads of it roll off the furrows in his brow and the tip of his nose. Hannibal goes into the kitchen for barely a minute to rinse out their mugs, then returns to Will shaking on the sofa, trembling like a leaf in a gale. Three of his dogs are sitting alert next to the couch, looking out for their master.

Hannibal shakes his head solemnly and bends to squeeze Will’s shoulder, trying to get him out of whatever hell he’s experiencing in his sleep. It doesn’t work the first time, nor the second. In fact, it doesn’t work until Hannibal kneels and whispers, “Will, wake up. Wake up. Whatever you are seeing, whatever you are hearing—it is not real. Listen to me, Will. Wake up.”

Will comes to the surface of the dream shortly afterwards. Tears and sweat mingle as they flow down his cheeks. “Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry,” he murmurs, still in a daze as he uses the drier patches of his shirt to mop his forehead. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Don’t apologize. You cannot control what goes on in your mind while you are sleeping. Sleep is when the brain goes haywire, for better or worse. You must have entered one of the deeper stages of sleep. At that point, there is no control to be had.”

Hannibal pauses and stands. “I will get you a new shirt. In the meantime, follow me; you can sleep in my guest room. Your dogs are welcome.”

“Thank you,” Will mumbles, lost in a daze. His eyes are unfocused like he’s about to seize, but Hannibal knows he’s just that exhausted. How long has it been, he wonders, since the poor man has had a restful night’s sleep? Guilt seizes his chest in its insistent fist as he leads Will down the hallway. Winston and two other dogs follow while the rest stay behind, enjoying the fire and the sofas.

“Rest,” says Hannibal, but the single word is lost on Will. He stands beside the bed as if he has forgotten what to do next. After a moment, Hannibal gently presses his hand to Will’s back, effectively nudging him into bed. Out of curiosity, he lays the back of his hand on Will’s forehead. The skin is clammy. Will stares at Hannibal with half-closed eyes as Hannibal probes the lymph nodes on either side of his jaw. “Do you feel any pain?”

“I’m not sick. I’m fine.” Though muted by fatigue, Will’s stubbornness is clearly evident in his voice.

“I was not asking if you are sick,” Hannibal replies evenly. “I was asking whether your lymph nodes hurt as I was touching them. Pain and swelling in the lymph nodes can be the first signals of a coming illness.”

“No, it didn’t hurt.”

“That was all I needed to know, but … is there something else that is wrong, Will? You are very distant, like you are preoccupied. What is on your mind?”

Will looks at him with the eyes of a disaster victim—glazed, bloodshot, intensely sorrowful. “Nothing,” he answers, his voice tight with the effort of maintaining composure. “Nothing.”

Hannibal lets the lie go. “If or when you wish to tell me, I will listen.” He doesn’t wait for a response before leaving the room. In the kitchen, he sighs at the time—nearly four o’clock now. To make it through the day ahead on barely an hour of sleep, he empties ground coffee into the coffee machine and lets it brew.

 

 

 

            


End file.
